Cold Turkey
by JJJJ12
Summary: Sherlock continues his quest to quit smoking but inadvertently develops a new addiction after walking in on Molly in a... compromising situation. Now the consulting detective must figure out how to deal with his new obsession. Wank!Lock. TWO-SHOT.
1. The Scent of Roses

There are two types of Sherlocks in this world: the Sherlocks who know nothing about sex, and the Sherlocks who obsess about it. I figured it was time to write Sherlock using the latter trope! Please enjoy and let me know what you think!

Xxx

Sherlock Holmes was many things. A genius, a prat, a high-functioning sociopath… the list could go on. Along with the good and the bad, he also had a rather obsessive personality.

It started when he was young. And since Sherlock claimed to know everything, he could pinpoint the exact moment too—his cousin Jeff, who lived in Boston, was visiting for a few weeks during the summer that Sherlock turned 8. Along with him he brought a suitcase full of books, including a series about a teenage detective called Nancy Drew. Jeff, who never shut his mouth, went on and on about how wonderful the girl was, and how absolutely enchanting the books were.

When he returned home, he "forgot" a book from the series, seemingly "lost" in Sherlock's favorite hiding space. Finally alone, the eight-year-old crawled into his bed and read through the book, not tearing his eyes away until the final word had disappeared from his blue gaze.

What a series. People called her a detective? He couldn't help but laugh. He had solved her case in approximately 23 pages. Yet, as soon as his eyes hit the advertisement in the back of the book, listing a phone number to order the following book in the series, he was hooked.

The following morning, he demanded the remainder of the series, to which the Holmes parents happily agreed. And thus, Sherlock read approximately 112 Nancy Drew novels that summer, challenging himself to solve her case before the teenage sleuth did. When he finished her series, he set his sights on the Hardy Boys, and followed the same routine, not satisfied until he was the best and the brightest amateur detective out there.

As he got older, his obsessions changed. At age 13, he trained for six weeks to run 2 kilometers in under 6 minutes. Fifteen-year-old Sherlock absolutely had to learn Latin. Seventeen-year-old Sherlock had to one-up Mycroft, even if his older brother was off at University.

When his formative years ended, his obsessive nature changed for the worst. While his previous fascinations were rather innocuous, and in some ways beneficial to his wellbeing, his new fascinations were detrimental. From his obsession with always having the last word, to constantly being kept amused, to the drugs….

Oh, the drugs!

At least he knew how to combat an addiction. At least he knew he was susceptible to using. But what he was currently experiencing was the worst obsession he had ever experienced.

And like he remembered Jeff's cumbersome visit to his childhood home, he remembered how he got himself into the bloody mess he was in now.

 _Sherlock laid on his sofa, his body folded into the fetal position. From his chair, John watched the detective, an amused look on his face as he shoved a mouthful of crisps into his mouth. From his spot on the sofa, Sherlock leaned up and gave his friend a nasty glare._

" _SHUT UP!" the detective bellowed, his blue orbs glaring across the room._

 _John snickered and ate another handful of crisps. "Oy, Sherlock, calm down. I get that you want a smoke, but no need to be a prat."_

 _Sherlock growled and threw his feet back to the ground, sitting up to face his former flat mate. "I will not 'calm down', John. I'm doing quite well, thanks for asking. These," Sherlock ran his hands over the ten or so patches along his arms, "are working brilliantly."_

 _The doctor rolled his eyes and ate another few crisps. "No, they're not. You're showing all the signs of withdrawal. Laying here and just thinking about a smoke is going to drive you mad."_

 _Sherlock hissed at his friend and returned to his original position on the sofa, drawing his knees to his chest._

 _John groaned and tossed his now empty crisp bag to the side. "My god Sherlock, did you just hiss at me?"_

 _The detective hissed again._

 _John just laughed. "Alright mate. Enough is enough. You need to forget about your urges. Find something to do that will distract you."_

 _Sherlock hissed again. "You hate when I play my violin."_

" _Oy, Sherlock, your use of that instrument this past week has not been 'playing'! You've been murdering the ears of everyone on this side of the Thames."_

 _The detective growled and turned his body on the couch, now redirecting his attention to John. "Alright then, John, how do you suggest I distract myself?"_

 _John leaned back in his chair, clearly thinking about his response. "To a normal bloke, I'd suggest a drink to take the edge off, but the last thing you need is another vice to quell your current one."_

 _Sherlock growled, clearly not amused. John rolled his eyes._

" _But there are other methods to distract yourself," John began, "Of course, what the average man does would probably not work for you," mumbling the last part._

 _Sherlock brought his hands to his temples, rubbing slow circles on his tense skin. "Enlightening John. Just absolutely, riveting. Say, what else can you find in that simple mind of yours?"_

 _John glared from his seat across the sitting room. "Must you always be a git when I'm just trying to help?"_

" _You're not helping!" The detective spat out, now back to sitting up on the sofa._

 _The doctor slumped his shoulders and took a deep breath. "Look, Sherlock, I don't know what to tell you. Quitting anything is not easy."_

 _Sherlock dropped his hands from their ministrations on his temples and rested them under his chin, his thumbs and index fingers caging his jaw._

" _And the normal blokes?"_

 _John laughed. "Well, I reckon it varies. Many of them exercise. Some eat their feelings away. But I'd say the most common distraction is shagging. But since most men don't have a shag immediately available, the go-to is always a nice, slow, wank."_

 _Sherlock blinked and dropped his hands, his eyes now focused fully on his friend. "A slow wank?"_

 _John nodded, as if it was obvious. "Best distraction there is. Horny? Wank. Sad? Wank. Happy? Wank. Tired? Wank. Tense? Wank. Dis—"_

 _The detective waved his hand, signaling for his friend to stop. "I'm thinking."_

 _The doctor rolled his eyes and grabbed the newspaper that sat beside him, flipping to an interesting story in the back of the paper._

" _Stop that," Sherlock hissed, his eyes shut, his brain clearly working overtime._

 _John groaned. "Jesus, Sherlock, stop what?"_

" _Thinking."_

" _Oy? Am I thinking too loudly for you?"_

" _Obviously."_

 _With that, Sherlock jumped to his feet, directing his attention to his friend. John shut the newspaper and looked at his taller former flat mate, giving him an amused grin._

" _Yes?"_

 _Sherlock cleared his throat. "Explain to me the benefits of wanking."_

 _John raised his eyebrow. "Come again?"_

" _Yes, John, I will come. But first, I'm curious why this is the go-to solution for the idiots of the world."_

 _John let out a snort. "Oh, Sherlock, you are something! Look, you know the science behind sex. Orgasms release oxytocin, which lower stress levels, and dopamine, which makes us feel bloody great."_

 _Sherlock scowled, clearly taken aback by the idea. John sighed._

" _Think of it this way, Sherlock. Right now, your body craves nicotine. Nicotine floods your body with dopamine. So does an orgasm. If you wank, you may trick your body into thinking you had what you really wanted."_

 _John jumped to his feet and slipped into his jacket. "Anyways, I gotta run to meet Mary. I rather not be here when you start shooting the wall or… worse. Good luck, and consider getting your rocks off for once."_

 _With that, the doctor was gone. Sherlock blinked, staring at the door._

 _Wanking? Was he 13?_

 _Sherlock looked down, taking in the appearance of his blue shirt rolled to his elbows, and the endless patches adorning his forearms. With a groan of frustration, he stormed into his bedroom, his door coming closed with a slam that shook the entire flat._

Months later and Sherlock now had a new obsession.

Sprawled across his bed, wearing nothing but a sheet covering his knees and below, he took his hard length into his hand and gave himself a tentative squeeze. He groaned.

He had taken John's recommendation that afternoon. And then again that evening. And then again, the following morning.

His hand began a leisurely pace, coating his length in a sickeningly sweet rose-scented body lotion. He sped up his movement, groaning into the air, inhaling the delicious scent.

He let out a gasp as his movement grew more frantic, his hips rising off his silk bedsheets with every passing second. With one final stroke, he saw white (both literally and figuratively), and collapsed on his bed, a boneless and satiated mess.

He groaned and shut his eyes.

Sure, Sherlock had wanked before that fateful day. But it was always on a need-to basis. He only ever fulfilled his needs when his body demanded. Unlike the average bloke, he never arbitrarily thought, "wow, I have some free time. Let's go watch some porn and wank myself sore!"

On top of his infrequency, his performance was always in the shower. A quick cleanup for a quick task. For Sherlock, the concept of a "slow" wank was even more surprising than the suggestion of a wank itself. It normally never took him longer than three or so minutes. In the end, it was a biological function. It didn't need to be necessarily enjoyed.

But that was then. Now, he couldn't stop. Every bloody night he had to wank himself raw, now unable to fall asleep without his head clear thanks to an orgasm. Even then, he still woke up most mornings, his cock as hard as John's bloody thick skull.

And things had only gotten worse since the incident.

Sherlock looked over at the fancy pink bottle of body lotion, staring menacingly at him from his nightstand. He growled and grabbed the bottle, contemplating throwing it across his bedroom, before defeatedly tucking it back into his nightstand.

He buried his face into his pillow and groaned. The incident. He cursed.

He had long gotten into the habit of using Molly's flat as a bolt hole, albeit his time there heavily reduced by his…absence and upon his return, the arrival of that moron Molly was somehow engaged to for a period of time. However, after a rather arduous case, Sherlock had returned to using her space.

Molly, however, had apparently grown accustomed to having her flat unhindered by Sherlock's unexpected presence.

The detective would learn this factoid one fateful evening, after eight hours of undercover work with John, moving through a brothel, followed by a chocolate factory, followed by a football game at a local park. It was a bizarre case. Or in the words of Sherlock—a fun one.

 _Having wrapped up his case, he stumbled to the front door of Molly's flat, digging into his trouser pocket to grasp the key, and immediately letting himself in. He dodged around Toby, who had scampered over to see why the door had opened, and walked into her sitting room, surprised to see that she must be out. It was only 9pm. Even Molly couldn't possibly head to bed that early._

 _Sherlock looked around her flat and made his way into her sitting room. Once assured that she had nothing of interest in her sitting room, he moved towards her bedroom, ready to sink into her rather comfortable bed._

 _As he neared the door, a movement in her bedroom caused him to halt, his body looking through the half open door. Molly's soft humming echoed through the room as she skipped out of the bathroom, her body wrapped in a large, fuzzy pink robe. She yawned and grabbed a rather expensive looking pink bottle of lotion from her nightstand, before dropping her robe._

 _Sherlock sucked in his breath, his eyes glued to Molly's nude form as she rubbed the lotion on what seemed to be every exposed expanse of her body. From her dainty ankles, to her toned calves, to her strong thighs, to her cute bum, and her shapely hips, and her deliciously flat stomach, and her round tits, and her dusty pink nipples, and her smooth arms, and her gorgeous, smiling face…_

 _Sherlock groaned and quickly covered his mouth with his hand, his cock angrily pressing against the fly of his trousers. He continued to watch Molly rub the last of the lotion into her glowing skin, before tying her brown locks into a loose bun and storing the bottle back into a drawer in her nightstand. She then graciously dropped to her bed._

 _The detective swallowed, his eyes locked on her small form, tucked away in the middle of the large bed. Then, as if a dream, the pathologist ran her small hands to her chest, and began to gently caress of her small, but perfect chest._

 _Sherlock bit into the knuckle of his index finger, his other hand unconsciously rubbing against his clothed cock. He shivered from his spot behind the door, watching as Molly took her breasts into her hands, and began to play with the beautiful pale mounds and mouth-watering pink nipples._

 _The detective would soon discover that her actions with her chest were only the beginning of a delicious evening. He remained entranced as her hands moved from her chest to her thighs, and eventually to between her legs, settling on beautiful, glistening pink flesh._

 _Sherlock bit onto his finger harder, his free hand having stuffed its way into his trousers and now fully wanking in the hallway leading to Molly's bedroom. In simultaneous movements, he stroked his cock as she fucked herself with her fingers, her moans echoing the sounds he wished he could make._

 _His eyes stayed locked on her gorgeous, withering form, completely enthralled as she let out a desperate cry, and collapsed back onto her bed, her body glowing pink, and a satisfied smile on her face._

 _Sherlock covered his mouth and let out a strangled cry, reaching his peak, his cock still tucked into his now much-too-tight trousers. With a shaky breath, he stepped away from the door, momentarily appalled by his actions._

 _He peered back into the room, surprised to see Molly out of bed and back in her plush robe. Noticing her movement towards the doorway, Sherlock moved further along the dark hallway, concealing himself in the shadows. As she slipped out of the bedroom and towards her sitting room, he slipped into the bedroom, enjoying the smell of her rose-scented body lotion and the smell of female sex._

 _He grunted and without a second thought had torn open the drawer to her nightstand, grabbing the bottle of lotion and tucking it into the pocket of his jacket. He moved back into the shadows of the hallway and watched as Molly walked back towards her bedroom, this time holding a bottle of water and a sleepy Toby._

 _Sherlock let out a shaky breath as her bedroom door shut. He silently moved out of the shadows and out of her flat, wondering what the hell he had gotten himself into._

And here he was, one month later, with a dangerous obsession.

His relationship with Molly had always been a complicated one. What began as general tolerance given the circumstances (he wanted access to the lab and she stood in his way) developed into a mutual appreciation. He valued her intelligence and her facilities, and she valued…well…him.

He could acknowledge that Molly was rather visually pleasing. He could see why many men, including Lestrade and even John on occasion had shown an obvious sexual attraction to the pathologist. That being said, he had never been sexually attracted to her.

Although, he supposed he had never truly been sexually attracted to anyone.

Like Sherlock's relationships with everyone, his friendship with Molly also evolved. He grew to understand her self-esteem issues and feelings of being insufficient, to her dating problems stemming from daddy issues, and she understood his many faults, quirks and obsessions, but most of all, why he was the way he was.

And she was there to help him when no one else could. He owed Molly so much. She put her life on the line for him and he was equally certain and concerned that he would never be able to pay her back for what she did for him.

His time away for those two years, and his eventual return to London to discover that he could possibly lose her forever, had sparked a change inside of him. He now identified something in the empty cavity of his chest for Molly Hopper.

Being Sherlock Holmes, he should be able to identify what that something was. But being Sherlock Holmes, he could not.

So, part of him, a part that certainly didn't exist so many years ago, hated that he had invaded her personal space, and taken a moment that was extremely intimate and turned it into his own personal wankfest. Yet, thankfully for Sherlock, humanity only accounted for about five percent of all his thoughts, so he normally gave little concern to his morally incomprehensible actions.

He shifted over in his sheets, enjoying the caress of the silk against the bare skin. He thought back to what John had said so many months ago.

"… _the last thing you need is another vice to quell your current one…"_

Sherlock stared at the white ceiling of his bedroom, and contemplated the doctor's words.

For someone who considered himself to be so strong, so bloody indestructible, he sure had a propensity for picking up habits that would surely destroy him.

He shifted in his bed and shut his eyes, only for them to shoot open at the scene of Molly's laughing smile from earlier that day at the lab. John and Mary had stopped by with lunch, and the couple had gotten her to laugh about some ridiculous internet trend. He hadn't been paying attention.

He shut his eyes again, this time to encounter her soft grin as she waved goodbye, and ventured into the rainy London evening. He shot them open again and cursed.

He wasn't obsessed with wanking. He wasn't bloody addicted either. It wasn't his fucking vice.

Molly Hopper was.

Sherlock cursed and buried his face in his pillow, smelling the remnants of the rose-scented lotion on his skin.

With a sinking feeling, he knew that going cold turkey on his pathologist was going to be harder than anything he had ever kicked—heroin, morphine, nicotine, and feigning ignorance of Lestrade's first name would be nothing compared to what was to come.

He shut his eyes and forced himself to smile.

The game was on.

 _It had to be._

Xxx

I hope you enjoyed! I suspect this will only be two parts, but it could potentially be three. Please let me know what you think and I hope you enjoyed!


	2. A New Vice

On a rather rainy Thursday afternoon, Sherlock strolled back into Baker Street and hung his jacket up, going over the events of his day. He had assisted Mrs. Hudson with moving boxes, then wrapped up a case with Lestrade, followed by a cuppa with John and Mary and ended with some experiments with Molly.

It was, for all intents and purposes, a splendid day. As he slipped out of his favorite shoes, he looked towards his bedroom door, his body already preparing for what it had been trained for. His stomach grew tight, his torso grew hot, and his hands already ached for their favorite role.

"NO!" he bellowed into the empty apartment.

Sherlock growled and pulled off his favorite purple shirt and collapsed into his chair, his hands moving into his curly locks to pull at the damp curls.

To put it simply, he was in agony.

For yet another period of Sherlock's life, his mind and body were conspiring against him. While in the past, the mastermind was typically a type of drug, this time around, it was sexual desire. Or Molly. Or both.

Oh, how he craved the days when he never gave sex a moment's thought!

"STOP!" he screamed again, to no one.

He dropped his head to his hands and cursed, his cock still pressing angrily against the fly of his trousers, as it had been for the past two hours.

Initially, when he realized he had a problem, (or was "normal" as John liked to say), he was perfectly content swearing off wanking. No more nighttime sessions, or early mornings in the shower, or leisurely wanks on his chair. He was to return to his previous 35 years of life, and approach wanking as a bodily function to be completed every so often, and not a routine.

He lasted four days. And surprisingly, those four days weren't painful for him at all. In fact, he got a considerable amount of work done, and found himself able to focus on his experiments and dealing with his mum's birthday celebration, a chore Mycroft had unfortunately thrown at him.

So, when on came the fifth day, he was rather prepared to continue his journey towards freedom.

But, poor Sherlock was rather naïve when it came to sex.

He had marched into Molly's office that morning, ready to request one head, three big toes, and a liver when the friendly pathologist came into view, humming over her desk and filling out paper work. Her long brown locks were intricately braided, leaving half her hair down, and the other half cradling her smiling face. The fascinating style framed her thin neck, allowing Sherlock to gaze unabashedly at the pale curvature.

As soon as she registered Sherlock's presence and met his gaze with a bright smile, Sherlock blinked, before storming out of the morgue.

Once the detective had made it to the toilet, he was forced with admitting that just the sight of her chocolate eyes, luscious hips, and beautiful smile had caused him to ejaculate in his pants, like a hormonal teenage boy in a room full of super models.

After that event, he attempted to convince himself that the Ejaculation Incident, as John so lovely referred to it as, was simply a fluke.

It was nothing more than his body in withdrawal mode, and Molly just being in the right place at the right time.

Of course, that was until he stopped by the morgue with John to see a body and managed one word to Molly before finding himself with an erection. Or, being forced to keep Molly outside of Baker Street when she dropped body parts off simply to avoid her seeing that just her voice through the door had his entire body (but mainly his cock) on edge. Or, Molly texting him something that could be construed as vaguely sexual and again, getting hard.

 _I'm coming xxx Molly_

Yes, he too had come, dear Molly.

At any rate, Sherlock was not stupid, and recognized the correlation between his sexual desire and Molly Hooper. He was forced to come to terms with its meaning, and again, revisit the situation after going cold turkey simply did not work.

He looked back to his bedroom door, his angry cock screaming at him to relieve some of the pressure, and to give into what he desperately wanted. A beautiful bottle of enchanting rose-scented lotion sat in a drawer, ready to be coated on his skin as his mind raced with images of beautiful Molly.

"FUCK OFF!" he screamed again, but this time, his attention on the tent in his trousers.

Sherlock held a staring match with the dented surface of his bedroom door before declaring himself the victor and storming inside. Self-control be damned.

He quickly removed the bottle from his nightstand and brought the top to his noise, practically moaning as the scent hit his nostrils. The rosy fragrance caused his stomach to clench and his cock to press angrily against its barrier to freedom.

Sherlock dropped to his bed and worked the trousers off, his pants following soon after, allowing his skin to enjoy the silk of his sheets. He squirted a handful of the pink substance into his hand and began to lather it around his thighs, before coating his cock in the cream.

He moaned and threw his head back, his hand squeezing his length, his mind and body finally satisfied with his actions.

Xxx

Molly stood in front of Baker Street, her arms holding a bag of takeaway, and a shiny new key in her hands. She looked towards the door, and then back to the key, before unsuccessfully trying to hide the smile that grew on her face.

She had never been able to get a key to the flat out of Sherlock. It had been John who was her knight in shining armor. She had visited the married couple, bringing some chocolate for the very pregnant Mary, when John pulled her aside and confirmed some of her own suspicions.

Sherlock had been acting rather… bizarre over the past few weeks. She saw him scarcely, and their meetings always felt forced. While Sherlock was never a big talker, he had been borderline mute over the past few weeks. John hadn't been able to give a reason for his reticence, but did offer her a key to Baker Street, and assured her with a grin that the detective would love dinner.

So, she did just that. With one final deep breath, she unlocked the door and entered the flat, surprised to find it empty. She set the food aside and looked around, before noticing a discarded purple shirt. Her feet moved her over to his shirt before her mind registered what she was doing, and in an instant, she had the shirt up to her face, inhaling the scent that was so distinctly Sherlock Holmes.

She let out a soft moan and held the shirt to her chest, both disgusted with herself and thrilled to be holding the article, even just to feel like she was holding the detective close. She dropped to his chair and smelled the shirt again, before a low moan caught her attention from across the flat.

Molly rose to her feet and looked at the shirt in her hands, suddenly feeling sick as a thought crossed her mind. Did he have someone over? Did he discard his shirt in a fit of passion?

Another loud moan caught her attention. Molly hugged herself and dropped the shirt back to the chair, immediately deciding that she needed to go. She quickly moved towards the door, barely holding tears back.

"Molly?" a strained voice asked, stopping her from twisting the knob and exiting the flat.

Molly cautiously turned around, startled to find Sherlock with messy hair and in nothing but a dressing gown. She hugged herself and looked away.

"Sorry… John gave me a key so I stopped by with dinner. But… You have someone over so I'll just go. Don't mind me."

Sherlock cleared his throat and tried to take a deep breath, aware that his cock was already hardening at the sound of her voice, even after a long wank in his bedroom. He quickly moved to stand behind his chair, but kept his eyes on Molly.

"Oh… I don't… Have someone over. Except you of course."

Molly swallowed and nodded, choosing to overlook the implications of his actions. She hesitantly moved back towards his sitting room and motioned to the bag of food.

"I brought Thai. I thought you'd be hungry."

Sherlock cleared his throat and nodded, taking slow steps towards the bedroom, desperately trying to will his erection down with just his mind. As Molly began to pull out the food, she paused and looked around the flat.

"Something wrong?" Sherlock managed out, this time concealing himself behind a chair.

Molly sniffed the air and looked around. "Are you lighting a candle?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "No."

"It smells like roses in here. Like my favorite lotion," she added with a sigh.

Sherlock swallowed and continued to move towards his bedroom. As Molly unpacked the food, he made a mad dash to the bathroom, locking the door in a frenzy. He hit his head against the wall repeatedly, keeping his eyes locked on his angry erection.

From the sitting room, Molly moved to open her food, but again noticed Sherlock's shirt. She grabbed the garment and walked towards the bedroom, unsure of how long the shirt would remain in the sitting room if she didn't put it away.

As she entered his bedroom, she was overwhelmed by the scent of roses. She dropped his shirt on his bed and looked around, stumbling a bit as her eyes landed on a familiar pink bottle. She picked it up and stared at it.

Mary had given her the same lotion for Christmas, since she knew Molly was a big fan of the flowery scent. Had she given Sherlock the same bottle?

Molly smelled the bottle and whimpered, again reminded that her bottle had mysteriously disappeared a few months prior. The rose scent reminded her of cleanliness and… release.

She had gotten into the habit of showering, lathering her body in the lotion, and then fucking herself silly with her fingers. It was a sad reminder that she desperately needed a man, but Molly was always persistent and would do what needed to be done. In this case, giving herself routine orgasms when a man wasn't around to do so.

Since she misplaced her bottle, she had been using lotion she purchased from the drug store.

It hadn't done the trick.

Molly squeezed some of the lotion into her hands and practically moaned as the scent hit her nostrils. She looked back at the bottle, noting the telltale signs of cat scratches on the label.

Before she could even process what she noticed, Sherlock strolled out of the bathroom, looking more relaxed than he had been when Molly first arrived. His eyes traveled to the sight of Molly standing in his bedroom, to the pink bottle in her hands.

He swallowed.

"Is this mine?" Molly managed out, looking between the bottle and Sherlock.

He took one look at her shapely figure in her work trousers and cardigan and cursed. He could practically feel the blood rushing south.

"Sherlock?" She asked again.

Sherlock hissed and grabbed the bottle from her hands, tossing it across the room. He glared at Molly.

"Of bloody course it's yours! What fucking choice did I have?"

Molly frowned and took a step backwards. "I don't understand."

"Of course, you wouldn't! You just walk around braiding your long hair, and smelling like roses, and wearing trousers that mold against your arse, and texting explicit messages!"

Molly blinked and stared at Sherlock, clearly confused. While her gaze was focused on his angry face, she did notice something odd out of the corner of her eye. She let her gaze fall down his dressing gown, until it met his completely exposed cock, red and angry, peaking through the silk material.

She squeaked and covered her mouth. Sherlock noticed her gaze and growled, completely giving up on trying to hide his overeager appendage. He dropped his dressing gown, now standing nude in front of Molly.

"The bloody think won't go away! This is the third one of the day! All because of you!"

Molly frantically looked between his angry gaze and his cock, unsure of which one was more captivating. She swallowed and looked back at his alluring blue eyes.

"That's your third erection of the day?"

"Yes," he practically spat out.

The doctor in Molly briefly took over the sexual beast inside her. "Sherlock, that—"

He growled and took a step towards her. "Do not tell me that it isn't healthy. It's perfectly fucking healthy. I just can't control it when you're always around!"

His words were meant to be harsh, but Molly barely paid any notice. She looked between his erect cock and the bottle, a lighting bulb finally going off.

"Oh…." Was all she squeaked out, before squirting more of the lotion into her hands.

She met Sherlock's eyes before reaching her hand forward and enveloping his cock in the creamy pink substance. Her tiny hand wrapped firmly around his hard length, squeezing the silky feel of him.

"Did you take this from me?" she asked softly, her hand slowly working its way up and down his engorged length.

Sherlock practically fell forward and let out a soft cry, his eyes captivated by Molly's chocolate orbs.

"Yes," he managed to choke out.

"Why?" she asked softly, her hand picking up the pace, her eyes darting all over his slim but toned form.

Her talented hand continued to stroke his engorged cock, her brown eyes sparkling in both amusement and attraction. Sherlock held her gaze, his mouth open, as low moans continued to filter out.

"Because…" he choked out, desperately trying to maintain his balance even though his legs wanted to give out, "I saw you using it and I couldn't think straight."

Molly squeezed his cock once more, and watched in pure fascination as Sherlock let out a feral cry and dropped his head to her shoulder, meanwhile coating her hand in his sticky essence. She couldn't help but blush.

"Oh Molly," he moaned, his cheek pressing against her shoulder, "you are just a minx."

Molly bit her lip and pulled at his hair, forcing the detective to meet her gaze. She swallowed and quickly pulled off her cardigan, allowing Sherlock to rake his eyes over her cherry-printed bra.

"Am I causing all of your erections?" she asked, batting her eyelashes innocently.

Sherlock swallowed and allowed his eyes to roam over her small but pert chest, her flat stomach, and the ridiculous pattern of her lingerie.

"Yes. It's your fault. And John's."

Molly blinked and paled. "John's fault?" she squeaked out.

Sherlock noticed her reaction and blushed. "No. I mean yes. But no. Not in the same manner in which it is your fault."

"I'm not following," she finally admitted.

Sherlock groaned. "John said I should wank because it would give me the same chemical reaction as smoking, which as you are aware, I'm trying to quit. However, that seemed to have opened a floodgate of sexual feelings and desires I previously repressed."

Molly bit her lip and watched as Sherlock's cock began to harden again, its length slowly rising towards her. She reached out and squeezed it, her eyes again playfully watching Sherlock.

"Makes sense. And how am I involved?"

"I saw you touching yourself. In your flat. Now you're all I think about it."

Molly squeezed him before redirecting her attention to her own clothes. She quickly undressed, her eyes locked on Sherlock's, and then sat on the bed, her legs wide.

"What a brilliant coincidence. You're always on my mind, too. Your arrogant but amusing wit, your blue eyes, your hard body…." Molly sighed and ran her hands down her stomach, shaking as her hand met her heated core, "I always wank with you in mind."

Sherlock grunted and dropped onto the bed, huddling over Molly, who had sprawled across the mattress. He swallowed before dropping his head, pulling Molly into a soft kiss.

Of course, the experienced and rather horny Molly was not satisfied with a soft, sweet kiss. She ran her hands into Sherlock's silky curls and moaned into his mouth, her hips gyrating against his exposed cock all the while she practically devoured his lips. She took his member back into her hand and gave him a hard squeeze.

"I've never done this before," he managed to choke out, his words broken apart by sparring kisses down the expanse of her neck and chest, "but bloody hell am I ready to try."

Molly's laugh turned into a moan as Sherlock's fingers met her heated center, seemingly immediately learning the ins and outs of the female anatomy. It only took him a few moments to determine what would make the woman shake in pleasure and what would cause her toes to curl.

"Normally," Molly began, her lips boomeranging between Sherlock's mouth and his chest in apparent reverence, "I would prefer lots of foreplay," her lips descended to his neck as she grabbed his cock, fully erect and angry in her small hand, "but right now I just need you inside me."

Sherlock grunted in understanding and watched, rather enchantedly, as Molly slowly slid onto his cock. His eyes practically bugged out of his head, although he maintained his attention on the beauty in front of him.

Molly let out a cry and began to move her hips, her hands firm on Sherlock's chest, her head thrown back in pure pleasure. Sherlock, meanwhile, held onto her thighs, his mouth traveling from her neck, to her chest, and finally devoting time to her perky breasts.

While he loved having Molly all over him, Sherlock still desperately craved control, and lasted only a few more moments before flipping them over, and driving into the brunette like his life depended on it. He met her lips in a searing kiss, and continued to pummel in and out of her petite body.

Molly wrapped her legs around his body, her nails digging into his beautifully firm bum, and screamed as his movements increased in speed. As Sherlock tangled their tongues and met her body with one final thrusts, both let out passionate screams, and collapsed onto one another.

Sherlock moaned and rolled off Molly, giving a side glance over to the brunette, who was bright red and trying to catch her breath. He immediately sat up.

"John told me not to replace smoking with another vice."

Molly sat up as well, holding the sheets to her nude form. She raised an eyebrow.

"Have you?"

Sherlock nodded weakly. "Yes. You are my new vice."

Molly cleared her throat and looked away, her hands playing with the edge of the blanket.

"Thanks, Sherlock. That makes me feel good. I didn't realize shagging me was such a bloody sin."

Sherlock groaned and shook his head, running his hands through his hair in frustration. "No. You misunderstand me. You… You distract me. Immensely. And like smoking and my… previous habits, I crave you."

Molly frowned and stood up, beginning to gather her clothes. "Sorry I'm such a distraction then."

Sherlock groaned and threw himself across the bed, quickly grabbing Molly's wrist and preventing her from moving further. "No. You are the best thing that has ever happened to me. You are the best distraction in the world."

She sighed and ran her fingers along Sherlock's palm. "Sherlock… You know how I feel about you. I can't do this back and forth thing. Or only shagging. I… I want you."

Sherlock moved to his knees and captured her in a kiss, before wrapping his arms around her body.

"I want you too, Molly. I reckon it will be alright to crave you if you're always around."

He kissed her shoulder and nuzzled into her neck, causing Molly to giggle.

"Besides," he began, "I won't need to smoke with the amount of sex we can have."

Molly groaned and shoved his chest, but did give him a soft kiss. "That sounds wonderful. But first, you need to be punished. You cannot go into my flat and just steal things."

Sherlock began to suck on her neck, his hands making quick work of her quivering bits. She practically melted in his hands.

"Alright," she moaned out weakly, "I guess we can figure out a schedule for reparations."

Sherlock grunted and pulled her back onto the bed, his mouth moving down to her pert breasts.

"I quite like the sound of that, Dr. Hooper. But first, I would like to lather you in some of this bloody aphrodisiac lotion."

Molly practically whimpered and laid down.

She couldn't argue with that.

Xxx

Across town, John laid in bed, watching as Mary rubbed a pink lotion into her pregnant belly, going on and on about preventing stretch marks. He just grinned, too preoccupied with his gorgeous wife to even give her words any thought. Yet, one word caught his attention, and he sat up.

"Come again?"

Mary laughed and set the bottle down. "I said that I picked this up from that fancy new shop near Notting Hill. The shopkeeper said it was an aphrodisiac. I gave a bottle to Molly and Mrs. Hudson for Christmas."

John laughed and shook his head, wrapping his arms around Mary. "I admit, it does smell pretty good."

Mary smirked and ran her hands down his thigh, quirking her eyebrow as she noticed movement in his pants. "Does it now?"

John grunted and gave Mary a look. "Don't start things you can't finish, love."

Mary just laughed and struggled to move to side, her hand beginning to caress his groin.

"Oh John, you know perfectly well that I can get a lot done with just my hands and my mouth.

John practically whimpered and laid down.

He couldn't argue with that.

Xxx

Across town, Mrs. Hudson laid in bed, smiling at her gentleman caller, who was currently handcuffed to her head board, his body coated in a delicious pink lotion.

She rose to her feet and gave the man a sultry stare before dropping her dressing gown, and slowly lathering herself in the rosy substance.

The scent of roses never failed to drive a man wild.

 _The end xxx_

 **NOTE: I hope you enjoyed! Sorry this took so long to update—I've been spending most of my time writing A Woman Worth of Being Pleased, which you should definitely check out if you have not** **Anyways, I hope you enjoyed! Please let me know what you think!**

 **This one should really have been called Sherlock and the Amazing Refractory Period!**


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